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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24261385">a good hot glass of tea</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumedy/pseuds/plumedy'>plumedy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Papers Please (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ending 19 (Papers Please), Friendship, Gen, Humor, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:47:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,303</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24261385</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumedy/pseuds/plumedy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sergiu Volda came back from the Six-Year War with a bad case of PTSD and hasn't been able to shoot straight since. The Inspector hates himself for the things he has to do to keep his family safe. Between them, they make one semi-functional person with a dreadful sense of humour.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elisa Katsenja/Sergiu Volda, Inspector (Papers Please) &amp; Sergiu Volda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a good hot glass of tea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Heavily inspired by the amazing actors from the official Papers Please short. I will never be over Igor Savochkin's facial expressions ;_;</p><p>Prominently features tea as the solution to all life's problems, including mental health issues and authoritarianism.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">Before the War, Sergiu used to be a good shot. The commander of his regiment would use him as an example for others to follow. “Look at Volda,” he’d say. “Now there’s a soldier whose bullets will keep the enemy away from our trenches. Were it that all of you sorry bastards could shoot like he.” Sergiu got a shiny silver pin as a reward for his marksmanship, with a little stylized eagle etched into it and an inscription that read <em>stay sharp, sharpshooter</em>.</p><p class="western">His rations stayed the same, though. That evening he held the pin in his fingers as he swallowed down his portion of watery cabbage soup and sour rye bread. The lamp overhead cast a dull gleam on the pin’s silver plating; and Sergiu felt proud.</p><p class="western">He still would be a good shot, if only it weren’t for that face. No matter the danger to his own life, he can’t seem to get rid of it. Even when the smell of burning rubber from the tyres of Kolechian motorcycles hits his nostrils – or perhaps especially then.</p><p class="western">It’s a young Kolechian boy, barely Sergiu’s age. His eyes are large and scared, and the gauntness of his cheeks under the dry darkened skin tells the tale of bread and watery soup.</p><p class="western">“Stop,” he begs. “Don’t shoot!”</p><p class="western">When Sergiu looks through the sights of his rifle, the boy’s face is always there. Sometimes it’s dead and bloodied; sometimes still full of life. Invariably, it makes Sergiu’s fingers tremble violently and puts such bitterness into his mouth it’s as if he’s been chewing on raw coffee grounds.</p><p class="western">He can never hit his targets quite right.</p><p class="western">Today he shoots and misses, as he always does. But unexpectedly, someone else does not. The face of the Kolechian running towards the guard post crumbles in surprise; his legs give out, and he flies gracelessly face first into the dusty concrete. When Sergiu walks over to check the body, he sees a tranquillizer needle sunk deep into the Kolechian’s ribs like the stinger of some over-sized metal wasp.</p><p class="western">The “pineapple” frag grenade the Kolechian had been carrying slowly rolls over to the tips of Sergiu’s army boots. Its pin is still safely in the lever.</p><p class="western">Sergiu looks to his left. Some fifty metres away, a bony-faced unsmiling man stands by the door of the inspection booth. There’s a rifle in his hands.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">The Inspector isn’t much for words. Still, Sergiu comes by his post as often as he can, especially after that day.</p><p class="western">“Thank you,” he says. “Yesterday – your timing was perfect.”</p><p class="western">“Glory to Arstotzka, officer,” replies the Inspector. Then, after a pause: “No problem.”</p><p class="western">The inspection booth is a small cramped space with a scuffed desk and a tin lamp. But the light of the lamp is a warm homely yellow, and if Sergiu stands just so, he can see the edge of something that looks like a child’s crayon drawing on the wall.</p><p class="western">And then there’s the brown woollen vest the Inspector’s wearing under his uniform greatcoat. It looks home-knitted – the factories of Arstotzka don’t put such care into their stitches. There’s love in that vest.</p><p class="western">Sergiu nods.</p><p class="western">“Glory to Arstotzka, inspector,” says he.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">The knowledge that the Inspector looks in his direction every now and then – that his hands are always close to the trigger of the tranq gun – it makes Sergiu feel safe. Protected. He feels a sense of the same silent camaraderie towards this man as he felt towards his squad-mates during the War; as he doesn’t feel towards his fellow guards in East Grestin.</p><p class="western">The guards can’t shoot straight for the life of them, either, but it’s because they’ve never before held a gun. They’re Sergiu’s age and he likes them well enough, but when he looks at them, he sees young boys. First kisses at the village disco. Cheap beer. Red tulips stolen from some babushka’s garden and proudly presented to their crush.</p><p class="western">They look carefree.</p><p class="western">The Inspector has never served, but there’s something different about him. Maybe it’s the perpetual tiredness in his expression, like he’s just done a ten-kilometre march through the mud.</p><p class="western">“Come in,” he says. “I expect you’ve done enough standing around in the cold for today, officer.”</p><p class="western">It’s not that much warmer inside, but Sergiu appreciates the gesture. He stands with his shoulder against the wooden door frame, looking down at the Inspector sitting behind his desk, and chats about inconsequential things. The Inspector is never anything less than silently attentive to his ramblings. It brings him comfort, to be listened to like that.</p><p class="western">It’s been a long time since he spoke to someone he felt he could trust.</p><p class="western">“I’d offer you to sit down,” the Inspector tells him, apologetically, “if I had more than one chair in here.”</p><p class="western">Sergiu waves this off.</p><p class="western">“It’s nothing to me,” he says. “I’ve spent so much time standing up on this accursed guard post my leg muscles are basically those of a horse.”</p><p class="western">He can swear the Inspector cracks the tiniest hint of a smile at that quip, his thin lips quirking up at the corners. Encouraged, Sergiu looks around for a suitable conversation topic.</p><p class="western">“Is that your family?” Asks he, pointing out a framed photograph. A smaller picture of a sullen black-haired girl is stuck to the frame with a bit of scotch tape. “Who’s the little one?”</p><p class="western">The smile melts off the Inspector’s face. His quick tin-grey eyes search Sergiu’s face for a moment.</p><p class="western">“It’s my niece,” he says finally. “Her mother is- ah. She’s not- Not with us at the moment. I took her in.”</p><p class="western">Sergiu isn’t stupid. He can guess what <em>not with us at the moment</em> means.</p><p class="western">“Not everyone would,” remarks he. “You’re a good man.”</p><p class="western">The Inspector blinks. It’s as if Sergiu called him by someone else’s name, or used the wrong rank. In fact, the mixture of confusion and embarrassment in his expression is the most emotion Sergiu has ever seen him display.</p><p class="western">“What? No, no,” he mutters, distractedly. “I did what I had to.”</p><p class="western">Mildly puzzled by this reaction, Sergiu shrugs at him.</p><p class="western">“I disagree,” says he simply. The Inspector opens his mouth to argue further, but Sergiu puts up one hand in a warm green glove. “But I’m sure it’s pointless to debate. Your business is your own, inspector.</p><p class="western">“Now what would you say to a good hot glass of tea? There’s a decent cafeteria in this part of Grestin. Pardon me, but you seem pretty cold yourself.”</p><p class="western">For a moment the confusion on the Inspector’s face intensifies; then, slowly, it eases out into something warmer and more complex.</p><p class="western">“I suppose I wouldn’t mind a glass of tea,” he says.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">Visiting that cafeteria after the day is over becomes something of a tradition for them. It’s a dismal-looking little place tiled with white floral-patterned faience, full of noisy conversation and the smell of cooked food. It seems to only ever serve three dishes: borsch, pickled cabbage rolls – <em>holishkes</em>, and semolina porridge with butter. The tea is strong but occasionally of dubious flavour. Sergiu finds himself wondering just how old the slice of lemon floating in his glass is.</p><p class="western">Still, it’s no worse than any other public cafeteria in Grestin, and the Inspector’s company makes the questionable tea more than bearable. Sergiu finds himself warming up to the man to an almost embarrassing degree. He doesn’t know how the Inspector would take it if Sergiu called him <em>his friend</em>, and so he doesn’t. But he hopes the Inspector cherishes their tea evenings as much as he, Sergiu, does.</p><p class="western">“You know, Kolechian terrorists aside,” he says one day, “there are so many strange characters crossing at our checkpoint. One wonders if it’s something in the air.”</p><p class="western">“If only you knew,” responds the Inspector, sipping from his glass. “Half of them I have to deny before they can reach your post. I had this woman the other day.</p><p class="western">“She gave me her Antegrian passport. And the person in the photograph only had one eye. I looked at her and she very obviously had two.</p><p class="western">“So I told her, ‘ma’am, this is clearly not you’. And you know what she said?”</p><p class="western">Sergiu waits for him to continue, but the Inspector is seized with some strange paroxysm. His thin shoulders are shaking minutely, and he’s put his tea down on the table to avoid spilling it.</p><p class="western">For a moment Sergiu is alarmed. Then he realizes the Inspector is laughing.</p><p class="western">“She said, ‘the years have been cruel’,” the Inspector chokes, wiping the tears from the corner of his eye. “<em>The years have been cruel</em>, Sergiu.</p><p class="western">“Never mind that guy who keeps giving me fake passports and admitting to smuggling drugs for no reason. You’re right, there <em>is</em> something in the air in East Grestin. Maybe it’s that guy’s drugs.”</p><p class="western">Objectively speaking, it’s not even that funny, but for some reason Sergiu finds it completely hysterical. He laughs so hard his tea goes through his nose.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">The next day goes smoothly – or as smoothly as a day ever goes in Grestin – and the next, and the next after that. This routine lulls Sergiu into a sense of complacency. Even the Kolechian boy doesn’t trouble him as much.</p><p class="western">“You should get a better haircut,” Sergiu mutters to him the next time he sees the familiar face when checking his rifle’s scope; unexpectedly, it makes him feel better. The other guards look at him a little askance, but it’s worth it.</p><p class="western">He looks through the scope again. The boy smiles at him with bloodless lips. The smile is strangely reminiscent of that of the Inspector.</p><p class="western">Sergiu gives a slight huff of amusement and lights a cigarette. The tip of it smoulders ruby red against the grey snowy landscape of the checkpoint.</p><p class="western">But that evening, the Inspector doesn’t emerge from his booth. Not five minutes after their shift is over; not ten minutes later. Sergiu is-</p><p class="western">He’s worried.</p><p class="western">It’s strange, really. The only person he’s been worried for since the War is Elisa. But she’s all alone in Kolechia, and the Inspector is right here, and in no great danger; at least not today.</p><p class="western">And yet.</p><p class="western">Sergiu slings his rifle across his back and walks over to the inspection point. Knocks on the door. Waits a bit. There’s no answer, so he opens it himself.</p><p class="western">The Inspector’s sitting on the chair, his narrow back turned towards the door. He’s silent, but his silver-striped shoulders are trembling – much like when he laughed at his own joke in the cafeteria.</p><p class="western">Sergiu doesn’t think he’s laughing now, though.</p><p class="western">“Inspector,” calls he, in low tones. “Are you crying?”</p><p class="western">The Inspector whirls around guiltily.</p><p class="western">“No,” he says in a wobbling voice. “I’m not. Nothing of the sort.”</p><p class="western">His cheekbones are wet and his eyes are red-rimmed. In short, it’s a rather barefaced lie.</p><p class="western">“You sound like that Antegrian woman pretending to have regrown an eye,” admonishes Sergiu. The Inspector gives a little unsteady laugh. Then his face falls again, and he puts one gloved hand over his eyes.</p><p class="western">“I can’t do this any more,” he gets out. “I can’t, Sergiu.”</p><p class="western"><em>I’d rather die than be a border guard</em>, Sergiu remembers thinking.</p><p class="western">“Hey,” he says, “I know how that feels.”</p><p class="western">“Do you?” The Inspector looks at him with a suddenly desperate, searching expression. “You told me I was a good man. But what would you say if you knew exactly what I do here?</p><p class="western">“There was a girl here today. Half my age, no more. Didn’t have proper paperwork. Told me she wouldn’t survive in Antegria. Food shortages.” The Inspector has to stop and breathe for a moment. Sergiu waits patiently, shifting his weight from one felt booted-foot to another.</p><p class="western">“She begged me not to deny her. She begged me, Sergiu. But they would dock my pay if I let her in.</p><p class="western">“I thought of my kids.” The Inspector jerks his chin at the framed family photo without quite looking at it. “The little one can’t sleep when it’s cold. I wake up to her crying.</p><p class="western">“What would you say if I told you I turned her away?”</p><p class="western">Sergiu looks at him for a moment or two; then sighs and puts a hand on his shoulder.</p><p class="western">“I’d say that you need a glass of particularly strong tea today, inspector.”</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">The Inspector sits across from him and silently stares down at the plywood table, looking shell-shocked. Looking at him, Sergiu comes to a decision.</p><p class="western">“I have something to give you,” he says, and rummages through the pockets of his sheepskin coat. “Here.”</p><p class="western">He carefully drops it into the Inspector’s open palm – a little silvery thing, shining just as perfectly as it did the day he earned it. He hasn’t worn it since the end of the War. It’s like something out of time – like a drop of amber with a slice of Sergiu’s life frozen inside.</p><p class="western">He doesn’t want it. It will do the Inspector more good than it ever did him.</p><p class="western">Incomprehension is written on the Inspector’s face as he squints at the inscription on the pin. <em>Stay sharp, sharpshooter</em>, it instructs still, addressing some young and cocky stranger Sergiu barely remembers being.</p><p class="western">“Doesn’t sound like me, I know,” Sergiu says, with a crooked smile. “But I was the pride of my regiment in Kolechia.</p><p class="western">“I was very good at… killing people.”</p><p class="western">“Enemy soldiers,” says the Inspector.</p><p class="western">“Were they?” Sergiu tilts his head a little, thoughtful. “Perhaps. That’s what the regimental commander said: that they were my enemies.</p><p class="western">“But then again, I expect the East Grestin border authorities regard people without proper paperwork in a very similar light.</p><p class="western">“Kolechians starved, too, inspector. They got ill, and bled, and died. And I killed them.”</p><p class="western">The Inspector looks him in the eye. There’s a strange expression on his gaunt face that makes something twist uncomfortably in Sergiu’s chest. Compassion. He’s not used to it. It’s something he wants and yet not, like spit-shined new boots that are a size too small.</p><p class="western">For a moment Sergiu feels as if in looking at him the Inspector sees the Kolechian boy that appears in the sights of Sergiu’s rifle.</p><p class="western">“Many people want something like this,” Sergiu says hastily. “It’s good for showing off to your friends, especially if you make up some lies about it. It’ll fetch you twenty credits. Maybe more. Take it.”</p><p class="western">The Inspector shakes his head.</p><p class="western">"I can't," he says. “You could sell it yourself, if –”</p><p class="western">“And if grandma had wheels, she’d be a wagon,” interrupts Sergiu. He puts his hand over the Inspector’s and closes the Inspector’s bony fingers around the pin. “Take the damned pin, inspector.”</p><p class="western">Finally, the Inspector nods. His features twist.</p><p class="western">“Excuse me,” he says, springs up, and swiftly marches out of the cafeteria, leaving his tea behind.</p><p class="western">This time Sergiu isn’t worried about him. He gets another glass and sits there comfortably, letting the heat from the bronze glass-holder dissipate into his gloves. He feels at peace, somehow. Like he’s done something right for once in his life.</p><p class="western">And sure enough, some ten minutes later the Inspector is back, a shade paler but otherwise none the worse for wear.</p><p class="western">They sit silently for a little while. Behind Sergiu’s back, a dinner lady scolds someone for putting too much salt in the borsch. A dog is barking outside. It sounds large and intimidating, but Sergiu passed it on his way in and knows it’s a small chocolate pug.</p><p>"You're kinder to me than you have any right to be, Volda," the Inspector murmurs, shutting his eyes. "I don't deserve your help."</p><p>"You're my friend and I won't see your family suffer," responds Sergiu. "So respectfully, shut the hell up."</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">Months go by. There are a few more attacks on the East Grestin checkpoint. Every time, the attackers fall before they can reach Sergiu’s post, sharp metal stingers filling them with sleeping venom. Sergiu begins to think the Inspector deserved that pin more than he himself ever did.</p><p class="western">Once, a motorcyclist speeds past Sergiu and towards the inspection booth instead, and Sergiu’s heart is in his mouth when he realizes what’s happening. He yanks his rifle up to his shoulder, and sure enough, the boy is there as always, fresh red blood dripping down his left temple. His mouth is stretched in a mocking grin.</p><p class="western">“Not today,” Sergiu pleads with him. “Haunt me all you want, but I have to save him.”</p><p class="western">For a few seconds the boy doesn’t react; then, slowly, he steps aside and away from the scope. Sergiu pulls the trigger.</p><p class="western">The motorcycle engine chokes. Burning oil is slowly pooling on the tarmac, little blue flames dancing lazily across its surface. It smells like smoke and death. The rider lies still next to his crashed machine, his limbs splayed awkwardly.</p><p class="western"><em>Alive</em>, Sergiu breathes. <em>The Inspector is alive.</em></p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">With the Inspector’s help, Sergiu smuggles Elisa across the border. As he spins her in his arms across the tarmac, his nostrils filled with the sweet smell of violets from her perfume, there’s spring in his heart; and for a moment he forgets all about the War and the Kolechian boy.</p><p class="western">It seems as if his country shares this certainty of a new beginning, because after he’s transferred to another post, things change in Arstotzka. Sergiu’s seen enough to think the Inspector played some part in this. And there’s more. Although he, Sergiu, was a border guard of the old Arstotzkan regime, he’s protected. Someone keeps him safe. Forbids the agents of the new regime from questioning him or Elisa.</p><p class="western">A month after the coup, a card comes in the mail.</p><p class="western">He reads it while sitting at the breakfast table across from Elisa, who’s somehow managing to sketch something in her little black notebook while at the same time chewing distractedly on a pancake. Elisa makes the loveliest pancakes, thin and lacy and nothing like the cafeteria food Sergiu used to eat before.</p><p class="western">He doesn’t quite manage to conceal his emotion, because she looks up from her sketch, her brow creasing a little.</p><p class="western">“Who’s this from?” She asks.</p><p class="western">“It’s from him,” he says, and she knows immediately whom he means.</p><p class="western">The card is an otherwise unremarkable Arstotzkan landscape. It’s a picture of a meadow surrounded by guelder-rose bushes in full bloom. On the other side is an address and a signature, and nothing else.</p><p class="western">The Inspector has never been much for words.</p><p class="western">“Get him to come by sometime,” says Elisa. “He needs to meet his future namesake.”</p><p class="western">Her hazel eyes crinkle happily at the corners as she pats her rounded belly.</p><p class="western">“I will,” promises Sergiu, and kisses her on the nose. He leans backwards, as if to survey the result of his efforts; then presses another kiss to the same spot for good measure.</p><p class="western">That evening, after getting off the rattling blue-and-white no. 634 at the newly-named Zvezdnaya Lane, he stands outside a little before entering. The block of flats before him is imposing; nothing like the class 8 wreck the Inspector used to live in before.</p><p class="western">He feels suddenly shy as he presses the doorbell and waits the interminable minute until he hears somebody’s footsteps behind the door.</p><p class="western">The door opens.</p><p class="western">“Sergiu,” chokes the Inspector.</p><p class="western">He isn’t sure which one of them initiates it, but they embrace. Funnily enough, in all the time they’ve been friends, Sergiu has never hugged the Inspector (who, come to think of it, is now not an inspector at all, and Sergiu should probably get used to calling him by name). It feels strange and more than a little awkward and so very satisfying. The man is still rail-thin and smells like wool and smoke. His arms are tight around Sergiu.</p><p class="western">“Elisa wanted to see you, too,” Sergiu mutters into the not-Inspector’s shoulder. “But first, how about a glass of tea? I know this great place around the corner.”</p>
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